


Whiskey Lullabye

by Lywinis



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Background - Freeform, Break Up, F/M, Gen, between the movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-12-03 05:52:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, Phil, what happened with the cellist?” Pepper asked.</p>
<p>“We called it quits. She stayed in Portland, with the Philharmonic.”</p>
<p>"Oh, boo!"</p>
<p>Sometimes things go deeper than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whiskey Lullabye

**August 2010**

“Excuse me,” he said, bumping into her shoulder. Phil wasn’t one who bumped into people; his situational awareness was too far off the charts for that. He wasn’t, however, above using it to introduce himself. “I’m so sorry, did I spill your cup?”

After all, the pretty blonde getting coffee in front of him didn’t know that it was intentional.

She smiled up at him, and he noted the floral hint of her perfume under the scent of her coffee – a vanilla latte. Her eyes were bright blue, almost a cornflower blue, and he found himself returning the smile. Petite, with a heart-shaped face that was pink from the chill, she caught his eye when he walked in. She was dressed sensibly for the season, the long coat warm and waterproof for the Portland area. The air was windy and rainy, and Phil’s own overcoat was wool and hid the Glock in its shoulder holster quite nicely.

“It’s no problem, I didn’t see you there,” she said, the smile widening as she switched hands with her cup to hold it out for him to shake. “Holly Martin.”

“Phil Coulson,” he said, taking her hand. Her fingers were warm, and bore strange callouses. “Violin?”

“Excuse me?” she asked, puzzled.

“Your fingers are calloused. Not in the usual way, but like someone who plays a stringed instrument. Violin?”

She seemed delighted. “Cello, actually, but a very good guess. Are you a fan of classical?”

“Mostly jazz, but I’ve been on a classical kick recently,” he said. “I like swing and big band, too.”

“You sound like my kind of music lover,” she said, and he flushed a little at that. “You new here? I come in here all the time, and I’ve never seen you.”

He nodded, and they moved out of the way of the other people getting coffee while he waited for his black-eye. The large coffee made it to his hands in good condition, and they strolled to the tables, natural as if he’d planned it. He might as well have some good company while he waited for Stark to show. He wasn’t due in for another four hours, and chatting with a pretty cellist didn’t seem to be a bad way to pass the time.

He found out she liked Chopin and Vivaldi, but she was iffy about Bloch and his soaring melodies. He doled out tidbits of information, such as the fact that he loved Saint-Saens’  _Le Cygne_  and that he had a soft spot for early Kansas City jazz. They were deep into a discussion of the merits of Duke Ellington’s later work when his phone chirped.

Phil’s face fell. “That’s my ride, I’m sorry, Holly.”

She smiled, looking at her watch. “Oh, my gosh, I have practice in half an hour anyway. Tell you what, dinner later?”

“That sounds great,” he said, his face lighting up. “Eight-thirty?”

“Make it nine and I’ll meet you there,” she said, pulling her bag over her shoulder.

“It’s a date,” he said.

* * *

One date turned into two, which turned into weekends where he flew out to Portland just to be in the area. He found tickets to the Philharmonic, and saw her seated in the first chair position. He closed his eyes and listened to the music, losing himself in it, if only for a little while.

He brought her flowers, she brought him peace.

There was coffee, in the mornings when the sunlight would stream through the window of the little house she kept in the suburbs. She would shuffle in, clad in one of his tees, and he would kiss her neck in greeting, earning himself a sleepy smile and the press of her hips against his as she greeted him right back. It rained more in Portland than he thought, and he stayed in with her almost as often as they went out.

He didn’t mind.

She discovered he sculpted, another tidbit of information he doled out when he felt she needed to know something more. She insisted on giving him lessons on the cello. He liked those. She pressed against his back, warm and languid, and murmured instruction in his ear.

He didn’t learn much, but they made beautiful music.

Where he worked never seemed to matter. It was almost refreshing, the freedom he had from his job while they were together. They wrapped up in each other, and Phil allowed the façade to crack, just a little – his work with SHIELD always came first.

Six months passed, and Phil’s guard dropped. In hindsight, it was stupid. Love was not for SHIELD. It was one thing knowing that you had someone to spend time with; it was quite another thinking about that person constantly in the overarching concept of your life. He brought himself up short as best he could. His work never suffered.

He dragged himself into the house that evening, letting himself in with the key. He reached the fridge and dropped an ice pack on his rapidly swelling eye. A sharp intake of breath had him whirling, and Holly stood there, pale in the fluorescents of the kitchen. His hands had come up in a defensive posture, and he lowered them, letting out a quiet breath.

“What happened, baby?” she asked. She stepped forward, to bring her hands to his face. Everything in him wanted to recoil, to push her away. Instead, he let her fingers prod at the bruise, his breath hissing in through his teeth.

“Nothing, Holly. Got into a misunderstanding.” He smiled for her, his eyes still that particular shade of dead one got when coming back from a mission. “Got elbowed in the face on accident.”

To be fair, that was the truth. The gangbanger had been trying to knife him in the ribs while Phil was after his boss. Holly’s brow wrinkled, that frustrated line she got when the tuner wasn’t working to her specifications. Phil cupped her cheek.

“It’s nothing, I promise,” he said, his thumb stroking over the line of her cheekbone. “I will be all right with a little rest. You want to stay in tonight?”

“All right,” she said, still frowning.

In hindsight, it was the beginning of the end. They watched TV like a semi-normal couple, went to bed, and Phil reached for her in the night, only to find her back to him where she had always burrowed into his chest for warmth. He tucked himself against her as best he could, but she stirred in her sleep and turned towards him.

He woke her with slow kisses and lazy touches along her spine. She gave off little breathy sighs, and he swallowed them as she arched against him in the darkness. She was warm breath, flesh and blood and bone, and he drank her in, comforting himself with her wrapped around him. He took his time, relearning her, knowing her, and she responded to his touch with an almost ferocity that left him breathless.

She sagged against him, and he sighed as the sweat cooled. If he felt the tear tracks as she cuddled closer to him, he didn’t mention it.

* * *

He wasn’t able to get back to her for a month after that. Work was calling him, as was the find of the century. He’d known that the Delta squad had almost triangulated the source of the energy surge in Puente Antiguo. He was called to show Stark his father’s research, and then summoned to New Mexico.

He had no time, no time. Holly rang his phone off the hook. He kept the spare cell in his glove compartment, turned off, and he scrolled through the messages he got when the mess was over and done with.

_Where are you?_

_Why aren’t you picking up your phone?_

_Was it something I did?_

_You need to call me._

_Phil, please call me._

He tossed the phone on the seat beside him and started the car. Clint opened the door just before he pulled away.

“Got new orders, sir?” he asked, sliding into the seat even as he moved the phone back into the glove compartment.

“No, Barton, just the old ones. We oversee mop up, and then we head home.”

“Oregon’s in the opposite direction of New York,” Clint said, and Phil almost flinched. The snappishness of his movements was not lost on Clint, who put his hands up. “Damn, boss-man, lighten up a little, I’m sure she wants to spend time with you.”

He sighed and gripped the steering wheel. “I don’t think so, not anymore.”

Clint leaned against the frame of the car. “Coulson, we’ve got this. If you want to leave me in charge and cut out to go and see her, you go and see her.”

“Too late now.” Phil gave a small snort. “She’s probably figured out that I don’t want to talk to her.”

“But you do.” Clint’s eyes, always too sharp, gleamed in the summer sunlight. “Go talk to her. I got this.”

Phil sighed, and put the car in drive as Clint got out. It couldn’t hurt. Maybe then he could get her out of his system.

* * *

He let himself in with his key. He couldn’t believe she hadn’t changed the locks. Even more surprising, she looked up from her book when he did so and sprang from the couch, wrapping him in her arms. He leaned against the door for a moment, his heart thumping in his chest.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Working.”

“I’m going to need a better answer than that.” She stepped back, and he could see the redness of her eyes. He swallowed, and took a breath, knowing that she wouldn’t be satisfied with anything he told her.

“I can’t, Holly. My job is important, but I can’t talk about it.” His eyes were pleading, even as he knew it wasn’t going to end the way he hoped. It never did. “Please, understand, I would tell you if I could.”

“Phil, you were gone a month, you didn’t return my calls, you didn’t answer my texts, and now you ask me to understand?” Holly’s voice rose an octave, and he braced himself. “You’re in and out on a regular basis, that I can understand, but you never tell me where you go or what you do. I can’t lay awake at night wondering if you’re alive or dead. I can’t live like this. I can’t live without talking to you, knowing that you’re okay. I’m not going to. Give me your key, please.”

Phil wound the key from its place on his key ring, well-worn with the press of his thumb. “I understand, Holly. I’m sorry.”

“The hell you are. You’d have returned my phone calls.” She was angry now, worked into a lather, and Phil held out the key, only to have it snatched from his hands. “Just…go.”

“I’ll call you?” he offered, one last thread, one he needed.

“Don’t bother,” she snapped, and turned her back. He could see her shoulders shake, knew the tears were falling. He might go to her, turn her around, kiss them away, but what good would it do? It would last until another one am phone call, and then it would all fall apart again. She was right, she didn’t deserve to live like this.

SHIELD didn’t have room for attachments. This was for the best.

He placed the box on the counter and left, the necklace a last gift; a meager apology.

* * *

The drive back to DC wasn’t pretty. He debated stopping, but he was numb enough to drive and drive and sleep by the road when the white lines began to blur his vision. He didn’t have anything to keep his thoughts from squirreling, the what ifs circling his brain.

Two days into his trip, he stopped at a bar in Kansas, crawled into a bottle, and didn’t come out.

* * *

“Jesus, you stink.” Clint heaved him into the shower, fully clothed, and turned on the cold spray. Phil gasped and struggled, but Clint was sober and wiry. His face was impassive, but his eyes were full of worry.

“All right,  _all right_ ,” Phil sputtered, and Clint relented, tossing him a towel. Phil wiped his face, his eyes crusty and his mouth tasting like bile and cheap whiskey. “Christ, Barton, what got the bug up your ass?”

“Fury did, you jackass.” Clint whirled and pointed a finger in his face. “He sent me looking for you, because I was the only one with an idea of where you went. It’s a good thing you left your phone on, or I’d have never fucking found you.”

“Who cares?” Phil growled. He pulled off his tie and slung it into the corner of the hotel room. The jacket followed, along with the dress shirt. His shoulder holster was gone. He couldn’t remember if he’d taken it off or if Clint had confiscated it. “I quit.”

“Fuck you, old man. No, you don’t.”

“Last I checked, you’re not my superior, Barton.” Phil stripped his shirt, shivering. Clint pointed at the shower, and Phil glared at him until Clint rolled his eyes and stepped outside of the bathroom. Phil stripped and got into the shower, his shaving kit still there. He shaved and scrubbed the filth from his pores almost angrily, irritated that Nick would still send Clint after him even after the verbose and profanity filled ‘I quit’ he’d sent two nights prior.

“Oh, and for the record, until you ‘get your shit straight’, as Fury put it, I’m in charge,” Clint called. “There’s coffee in here, and you will drink it and sober the fuck up. I’m not the babysitter here, I suck at it.”

Clint couldn’t see the disgruntled look Phil shot him, but there was a fresh suit hanging on the doorway. He took it down and got dressed, brushing the taste of the bar out of his mouth with some of the complimentary toothpaste. He spat, and caught a glimpse of Clint glaring at him from the doorway.

“What.”

“Are you done being a baby about this?”

“I’m allowed to act how I please.”

“And you’re acting like a baby.”

“Barton –“

“No, you shut the fuck up and listen, Coulson.” Clint’s eyes glinted like razors, and he ran a hand through his short hair. “You’re acting like a fucking kid, and it’s not cool. I joined up with you because you were better than this. You didn’t do shit like this, even when I did. If you wanna go back into that bar, by all means, but Fury’ll kick me out with you if you do, and I don’t think you want that for me. ‘Tasha’ll leave, too. You know she will.”

Phil’s jaw tightened, and he placed his palms flat on the counter to prevent them from shaking. He’d have to spend a few days in medical, but he’d speak to Fury in person.

Twenty-three years in this line of work without a slip would surely earn him something of a second chance. He frowned.

“My conduct has been unbecoming of a senior agent, Agent Barton. For that, I apologize.” Phil cleared his throat. “You said there was coffee?”

Clint gave a sharp nod, but his shoulders sagged the tiniest bit. “In here. Got you a blackeye.”

It stung, but he would heal. He always did. Chest wounds were just a bitch, that was all.

Two days down, the rest of his life to go. He could do this.

* * *

“So, Phil, what happened with the cellist?” Pepper asked.

Phil didn’t wince anymore. He smiled his placid smile. He was making progress.

“We called it quits. She stayed in Portland, with the Philharmonic.”

Her eyes were sympathetic. He hated that. He was fine, really.

He would be just fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes I think about life before The Avengers for Phil, and my brain likes to explore that. Meet Holly, my version of the cellist. Just goes to show you that sometimes habits are hard to break. Phil still has a penchant for leggy blondes with bright blue eyes.


End file.
